David Jackson - Marked

LeBlanc studies the picture, then switches his gaze back and forth between it and the computer screen.

‘Looks like her.’

‘It is her,’ says Doyle. ‘The wounds and the position of the tattoo match up exactly. And before you ask, that’s not just my opinion. It’s also the opinion of a Medical Examiner and an expert in image-comparison techniques.’

‘Okay, so it’s the same girl. Who is she?’

‘Name’s Alyssa Palmer. She disappeared just over a week before she turned up in the river. She was seventeen. Her friends told me she was obsessed with the idea of getting a tattoo, but that her parents wouldn’t let her have one until she was old enough. The day before she went missing she told her best pal that she thought she’d found someone who would do the tattoo for her.’

LeBlanc looks up. ‘And she named Proust?’

Doyle doesn’t answer, because his answer isn’t the one he wishes he could give.

He slides another photograph from the folder and hands it over. ‘This is a close-up of the tattoo.’

LeBlanc studies it. It’s a red-winged butterfly, hovering over a flower. Delicate curling fronds from the plant intertwine above the insect.

‘Nice,’ says LeBlanc. ‘You trace it to Proust?’

Again, another negative that Doyle doesn’t want to voice. ‘We talked to every tattoo artist in the city. A couple of them said it looked like it could be Proust’s work.’

LeBlanc nods. Says, ‘Uh-huh.’ Makes it pretty damn obvious that he doesn’t think it’s a lot to go on. Which, Doyle has to admit, it isn’t.

‘And the other tattoo? The one on the guy’s leg?’

Doyle gives him the next photograph in the sequence. ‘Best we could get.’

It’s a magnified view of the guy’s calf. Unlike blow-ups you see done in TV programs, which magically supply absent detail, this one is highly pixelated. The tattoo consists of a black symbol containing a blurred white smudge at its center.

‘That’s the ace of spades,’ says LeBlanc. He taps the photograph. ‘What’s this in the middle?’

‘We think it could be a skull and crossbones,’ says Doyle, using a plural rather than the more accurate singular pronoun. He watches as LeBlanc squints at the image and makes no attempt to confirm that he sees the piratical symbol too. Doyle wants to snatch the picture back from him and tell him to forget it if that’s going to be his attitude.

Then LeBlanc compounds his error. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because. .’ Doyle begins in a louder than necessary voice. He softens it again. Tries to find some patience for the inexperienced young cop. ‘Because Proust has done a number of tattoos of the ace of spades with a skull and crossbones in the middle. They’re in his books. Okay?’

He glares at LeBlanc, daring him to make further challenges. Keeping suppressed deep within him his knowledge that there is a lot to challenge.

Heedless of the danger, LeBlanc presses on. ‘Hold up. What am I missing here? You have one tattoo that a coupla people say could have been put there by Proust. And you have this other tattoo that might possibly be similar to some others that Proust has done. And this is why you like Proust for two murders?’

And now Doyle does snatch the photograph back. He grabs it back so fast he hopes he gives LeBlanc a paper cut.

‘No. Did you hear me say this was everything?’

‘So, then, what? You pin some forensic evidence on him? Maybe locate the basement in the video?’

None of the above, thinks Doyle. Oh, what he would give for something as concrete as that. And oh, how lame it sounds when his answer leaves his lips:

‘I talked to the guy.’

LeBlanc moves quickly on to his next question, but Doyle sees the irritating flash of disbelief on his face before he does.

‘Proust? What did he say?’

‘He denied everything.’

Thinks Doyle, You just go ahead and say, ‘Okaaay,’ in that long, doubting way again.

‘Ah,’ says LeBlanc. Which is almost as bad. ‘But you caught him out on something. Right?’

Now he’s being patronizing, thinks Doyle. Throwing me a line like that.

‘I told you. I talked to him. I spent hours with that sonofabitch. He did it. I could smell it on him. He killed Alyssa Palmer. And now he’s killed Megan Hamlyn.’

Which, to Doyle, should be an end to it. LeBlanc should shut up now and bow to the wisdom of his older, more experienced partner, and leave it at that.

But he doesn’t.

‘What exactly did Proust do or say? How do you know all this about him?’

Doyle stuffs the photographs back into his folder, then presses the eject button to retrieve his DVD. He gets the computer’s tongue again, the disk still sitting there like a pill it refuses to take.

‘He didn’t exactly do or say anything. It’s a feeling, Tommy. I know this guy. I know what he is. I know what he did.’

LeBlanc thinks about this for a moment. ‘We can’t work on hunches, Cal. We need something more.’

Doyle stands up. ‘For fuck’s sake, do you think I don’t know that? I’m sick of everyone in this damn squad telling me how to work this case. You do what you want, Tommy. I’m going after Proust.’

LeBlanc gets up. ‘Cal, I didn’t mean-’

But Doyle is already out the door. LeBlanc wanted an explanation, and now he’s got it. If he doesn’t like it, he can shove it.

Doyle is getting used to working alone. Even when he has a partner.

This should be an oasis of calm. Here, at home. With his wife. In their beautiful apartment in the Upper West Side.

But it isn’t. He knows how tense he is. Everything he says or does seems loaded with pent-up energy. Earlier, when he tripped on the corner of a rug, he felt compelled to kick the damn thing across the room. And when he went to sit at the table and found that the leg of his chair was caught up in one of the other chairs, he almost turned the whole set of furniture upside down in an effort to get himself seated.

He wonders if he’s going through a mid-life crisis. If he is, then he’s going to have a short life. It should be way too early for one of those.

Maybe he’s hormonal. A problem with his thyroid or whatever. It’s playing havoc with his system. Yeah, that’s it. He’s ill. He can’t be blamed for the way he’s been acting lately. People need to be more understanding.

He’s not ill.

He’s obsessed. Which, he realizes, could also be classed as a form of illness. Except that he’s obsessed for the right reasons. His obsession is justifiable. He’s not some kind of irrational stalker. He just wants to put a killer behind bars. Is that so weird?

Rachel comes out of the kitchen, carrying his meal in an oven mitt. Note to self, he thinks: don’t touch the plate.

She sets it down in front of him. Some kind of pink fish. He has a love-hate relationship with fish. He loves the taste, but hates picking out the bones. He can’t bear to have even those flimsy little bones in his mouth. Rachel never seems to notice them. She just swallows them. Doyle doesn’t understand how she can do that.

He turns the plate.

‘Shit!’

‘It’s hot,’ says Rachel. She holds up the oven mitt for emphasis.

So much for my fucking mental notepad, he thinks. When was that — all of five seconds ago? The fish on this plate probably had a better memory than mine.

He picks up his knife and fork. It’s supposed to be a fillet. Maybe it won’t have bones.

Rachel removes the mitt and sits at the table. She tucks some wisps of her dark hair behind her ears, then puts her chin on her hand and waits for him to start eating.

He cuts into the fish. Pulls a piece away. Sees the bones spring into view like the prickles of an agitated hedgehog.